Henry Ford was a God. No, not because he invented the car or even because he invented the assembly line. No, Henry Ford was a God because before Henry, there was no sex in cars. But then he bestowed, upon us, the backseat.

Today, your average car will do 0 – 60 in less than 6 seconds. And women know that most guys do the same thing.

Sex in cars is as American as Apple Pie. I believe there used to be a commercial like that. “Baseball, hotdogs, Apple Pie and sex in a Chevy.”

And it truly is an American thing. In America we make big luxurious cars. Perfect for having sex in. Did you ever try to have sex in a small foreign car? Years ago I was getting hot and heavy with a girl in her Mazda Miata when she suddenly said, “I can’t do this with you. It’s way too small.” My ego was seriously deflated until I realized she was talking about the car.

Another time we tried again, so I moved over from the driver’s seat to get on top of her in the passenger’s seat. It was at that point that I slipped and impaled myself on the stick shift. Now, everybody knows that the Miata is very popular in the Gay market. I, personally, know why.

Fortunately, in America we have SUV’s or Sexual Utility Vehicles. These things are bedrooms on wheels. I mean with the fold-down seats, the dual DVD players and the optional ceiling mirrors which mine has, what could be better? In fact, some SUV’s are so big, you can actually have sex standing up. Oh, you think it’s a coincidence they call it a Hummer?

Recently, my girlfriend and I started making out in her car. One thing led to another and we ended up having sex in her car. Sex in a car when you are 40 is far different than sex in a car when you are 17. When you are 17, you worry about getting pregnant. When you are 40, you actually have to remove the child car seats from the back seat before you can do anything.

We discovered some other problems too. For instance, while we were having sex, my foot accidentally hit the GPS system. Do you know how unnerving it is to suddenly hear a strange woman’s voice say,

“Move 3 inches to you left. Move 2 inches down. Now go faster. You have arrived at your destination.”

My girlfriend, on the other hand, thought it was the best sex we ever had.

But if that wasn’t enough, she accidentally hit the OnStar button.

“This is OnStar how may I help you?” the voice said.

My girlfriend moaned.

“Are you ok? Are you hurt?” said the voice.

My girlfriend moaned again.

“Ok,” said the voice, “An ambulance is on its way. I’ll stay on the phone with you until they get there.”

In the movie “Love Story,” Ali McGraw says to Ryan O’Neal, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” It was incredibly romantic line that helped define the movie. Since this movie was made in 1972, I can only surmise that the writer was still high on all the drugs he had been doing in the 60’s.

Love means never having to say you’re sorry? Oh Puleeeeeeeease! Actually, not only does love mean having to say you’re sorry, love also means buying flowers and expensive jewelry on a regular basis just to counteract your screw-ups. In fact, men do this so much, women have begun to expect it.

Many years ago when I was happily married and still madly in love, I decided to do a really romantic gesture. I decided to buy 4 dozen roses for my wife. My plan was to create a path of rose petals from the garage, up the stairs into our house and into the bedroom, where the other 3 dozen roses would be. So I went to the florist and I got my 4 dozen roses. And when I got to the counter, the sales clerk actually said to me, “Wow, whatever you did must have been really bad.”

Not that I was immune to screw-ups in my marriage. How could I not be wrong? I have a penis. Have Penis + Wife Disagrees = I am wrong. I believe this is known as “Descartes Law of Maleness.” “I talk, therefore I’m wrong.”

Actually my wife and I pretty much had a 50-50 split on arguments. Half the time I was wrong and the other half on the time she was right.

Fortunately, I learned to counteract this inherent flaw in my genetic code by learning the I’m Sorry Head Nod. Whenever I was wrong (defined by when my wife thought I was wrong and I didn’t feel like arguing) I got to do the I’m Sorry Head Nod. This is actually a very simple procedure that any man can perfect with just a little practice. First, hang the head slightly down, somewhere between 45 and 70 degrees. Less hang than 45 degrees is not enough to show real regret. More than 70 degrees and you are in serious danger of looking whipped. Women don’t like whipped. Women like strong men . . . who can admit they are wrong. It’s a very fine line; one that the flying Walendas would have trouble balancing on.

Next, say the words, You are right. I was wrong. I’m sorry. It is important to clearly enunciate. Mumbling just pisses them off even more. They think we are faking it. Let me rephrase. They realize we are faking it. Of course, we are always faking it, but if we fake it with sincerity they might just buy it.

Sometimes one repetition of You’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry, will be enough. In fact, the first time you say it, it usually is. It catches them off guard. There she is going off about how if you really loved her you would put the seat down, and you say, You’re Right. I’m Wrong. I’m Sorry. She doesn’t know how to respond. Suddenly, she is like a deer in the headlights. “What is this?” her mind is saying. “We were not expecting this. He admitted he was wrong. This does not compute.”

If you try this strategy you will notice a sudden confusion in the female subject. Think of it as the female equivalent of the computer’s blue screen of death. Unfortunately, like the computer, she really only needs about 5 minutes to reboot and then you are back to square one.

Well, maybe not. Most women will accept a real apology and will no longer be mad at us until the next time we screw up. Unfortunately, this is typically 16.2 minutes later.

Why is it that dogs and cats seem to like watching their owners have sex?

I actually find it very unnerving. I mean, what are they thinking? Are they taking notes? Are they comparing sizes? Who knows?

When my dog is watching, I can’t help thinking that he is saying to himself, “Hey that’s my move. And you stole it. And it’s not fair ‘cause it’s the only one I know.”

But maybe that’s just my own insecurities talking. Maybe my dog is thinking, “Now that’s a move I haven’t thought of. Maybe I’ll try that next time. If only I had opposable thumbs.”

I think cats are different though. I figure cats are thinking one of two things. Either it’s, “Boy, you guys make a lot of noise, even for cats,” or it’s, “Do you guys mind? I’m trying to sleep here.”

Compared to our pets, humans are very strange when you think about it. Dogs lick their own testicles all the time and yet, you never see one performing oral sex on another dog.

On the other hand, humans will perform oral sex all night on each other and then the next morning, when one of them asks to borrow the other’s toothbrush, they think that’s gross.

We are also the only animal that needs to work up to sex. First, we wine. Then, we dine. And then, maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll get some. On the other hand, my dog has not once asked one of my house guests out to dinner before he started humping their leg.

Oh, true every animal has its mating rituals, but most of them are designed to show power. The peacock that spreads in plumage. The ram that butts heads with another ram. The insect that does an erotic dance. I tried an erotic dance for my girlfriend once. It did not end in sex. It did, however, end in a trip to the emergency room when I fell over the coffee table and broke my leg.

We also seem to be the only animal that needs to have sex in private. It’s a perfectly natural part of life and yet we are the only animal among thousands of species that have to do it behind closed doors. Religious zealots will tell you that’s because God gave us modesty. Perhaps God was thinking of what could happen if Rosie O’Donnell ever made a sex tape.

The other big difference between us and the rest of the animal world is the number of positions. Every other species has sex in one position and one position only, doggie style – which is a funny name because it’s also horse style, insect style, tiger style . . . you get the idea. Somehow the dogs got credit for it, though I doubt if they invented it. They must have one hell of a PR firm.

Anyway, the entire animal world has one position – doggie style. Unless of course you count the preying mantis – where it’s female on bottom; male pumps away, but doesn’t have a head. That’s right during the act of sex, the female preying mantis turns around and actually bites off the head of the male preying mantis. Now I know we all feel we have had this done to us euphemistically. But in the mantis world, she actually eats his head off.

But here’s the amazing part. The male never misses a beat. He continues to pump away at the female. I realize that women always joke that men think with their other head, but apparently in this case, It’s actually true!

But back to positions. There is only one basic sexual position in the animal world. Humans, on the other hand, are so advanced we have many, though there are four that are the most common. 1) Women standing – Man on knees begging and pleading. 2) Man on back – Women not home. 3) Man opening wallet – women accepting money, and finally 4) Man on top – Women looking up wondering what color she should paint the ceiling.

Her gorgeous brown eyes twinkling as she spoke. She was one of the most beautiful women in the world, long sun-kissed hair, perfect skin and a body that would make a Sports Illustrated swimsuit photographer do a double take.

“Of course I love you, Ween” he said, though never looking away from the TV set.

“Is there somebody else?” she asked.

“Why would you say that?” a hint of guilt escaping his lips.

“I think you’re in love with somebody else.”

“That’s not true!” he said. This time he looked up. A commercial had just begun.

“You spend way more time with . . .” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. Though she had known for a long time, putting it into words made her even sadder.

“Look,” he said, “We’ve gone through this before. It’s not love and it’s not cheating. It’s just a special friendship. I have needs that you can’t fulfill. I don’t think you can understand. Nobody makes me laugh like . . . like . . . him.”

There he had said it. He had finally vocalized it. It felt good. He had said what he had wanted to say for years and it felt good.

She sighed. “You know it didn’t bother me at first. When it was just Cybill. But then it was Grace Under Fire. And now it’s the Big Bang Theory and Two and a Half Men 12 times a week. And you TiVo every one of them!”

She was yelling now, something she did not do, but Elvis had left the building and he wasn’t coming back.

“You’re in love with Chuck Lorre, aren’t you!, she accused, her words making the oxygen retreat to the corners of the room.

“I am not in love with Chuck Lorre,” he said. “Ween, I love you. You are the world to me. We’ve been together for 10 years. We have children together. We share everything. I love you today more than I loved you when we met. And I’ll probably love you even more next week. And, if sometimes I don’t give you enough attention, then I am an idiot and I am sorry. You are my universe and nothing, I mean nothing, could ever take me away from you.”

Note from Glenn – If you don’t know who Chuck Lorre is or what Chuck Lorre Vanity Cards are, you are missing out on a comic genius. Check out http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0521143/. Chuck is the creator and writer of Roseanne, Cybill, Grace Under Fire, Two and a Half Men and The Big Bang Theory.

Today, with the onslaught of technology where we meet people online, where we communicate with lovers via email and where we actually have sex using webcams, there is one tool of love that has changed very little. (No, not that one ladies.)

I am, of course, referring to Beer Goggles.

Beer Goggles are a wonderful bit of technology, used primarily by men, which allows men to get laid by dropping their standards even below their already ridiculously low threshold. Whereas the average sober man keeps rigorous standards when searching for his short-term mate, such as for instance, she must in fact be human; the man wearing Beer Goggles may have no such requirement.

Perfected by the East Germans and mass-produced by American beer companies, Beer Goggles are now a staple in most every single man’s toolbox of love. (Stored right between the Old Spice aftershave and bikini underwear.)

Despite popular belief, beer was not originally invented as a refreshing drink, but was in fact created to achieve the desired state of Beer Goggles. The refreshing taste of beer was purely an added benefit and allowed men to drink it even when women weren’t around, thus giving rise to Sports Goggles. (“Really,” says my quite drunk friend from Chicago. “This is the year that the Cubs win the Series.” And then he takes another swig of Sports Goggles.)

The strange thing about Beer Goggles is that they only seem to affect men. How often do you see a beautiful woman leaving a bar with a butt-ugly man?

Why is this? What is it about women that are immune to the effect?

In order to answer this question I did quite a lot of field research. That is to say I hung out in bars and tried to get women drunk. (Yes, there are certain benefits to this job.) What I found was that women do not seem to be affected by Beer Goggles in the same way as men.

True, many women do not drink beer, but I surmised that the affect of any alcohol should be the same. Perhaps then, it is the presence of tiny paper umbrellas that wards off the nasty effects of the Beer Goggles. I believe that when an ugly man hits on a woman who has had too many Mai Tais, the tiny paper umbrellas jump into action. They start performing a little dance, not unlike the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies, and they sing this little ditty.

(Sung to the tune of I heard it through the Grapevine)

I bet you wondered how I knew
That an ugly guy was hittin’ on you
Uglier than the one before
Time for you to run out the door
He took you by surprise, I must say
But you must still get away.

Don’t you know . . .
That you’ve drunk too much wine
Get out now and you will be fine
Yes, you’ve gone through too much wine
Go home with him? Have you lost your mind!
Honey, honey yeah.

I know you don’t want to cry
But now you must say goodbye
Cause when you’re sober you will see
That he looks just, like Mini-Me.
You could go home to his loft
And end up chew-ing your arm off
Don’t you know . . .

That you’ve drank too much wine
Get out now and you will be fine
Yes, you’ve gone through too much wine
Go home with him? Have you lost your mind!
Honey, honey yeah.

Thus, the woman, now sufficiently warned by the tiny paper umbrellas, does not go home with the ugly man. That’s one theory.

My other theory is that woman are just far more intelligent and not nearly as desperate as men and getting them drunk is not going to change this. Frankly, I prefer the comfort of my first theory in that if I can figure out a way around those damn dancing paper umbrellas, I just might have a chance.

My friend Jen’s parent’s story is truly a romantic tale. The first time they met he saw a vision of beauty; cascading brown hair, beautiful eyes, and the sweetest voice he ever heard. She saw, well . . . a giant troll. He was entranced. She was exasperated. He was delighted. She was disgusted. He was smitten. She was sick to her stomach. He had butterflies. She was about to lose her lunch.

He, however, was not to be denied. He called her. She ignored him. He sent her flowers. She ignored him. He wrote her poems. She read the poems. Her eyes welled up with tears. And then she ignored him.

For 6 months he pursued the object of his affection. For 6 months she ran . . . fast . . . I mean really fast . . . really, really fast. And then something happened which can only be explained by the mysteries of the cosmos. She fell madly in love with him. Last year, they celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary.

Today, we have a name for this romantic tale. We call it stalking. Try this same tactic today and you will not get a wife; you will get a restraining order.

In fairy-tales that little girls grow up with, the handsome prince shows up at the castle climbs up the trellis and whisks his true love away to live happily ever after. In the real world this is referred to as breaking and entering with a side-order of kidnapping.

What happened to the world? Is romance dead? Does romance no longer exist? Perhaps it is how we have evolved as humans. 10,000 years ago when you met someone you liked, you followed the respectable courting protocol. You clubbed her over the head and dragged her back to your cave.

Of course we no longer do this. Nowadays we have to buy her a drink first.

No actually, over the centuries, we really did try to modernize dating.

First, we had arranged marriages. We actually decided it would be smart if our parents chose our mate for us. This action not only ensured that we would procreate, but that we would be with someone who could annoy us for the next 50 years, about the same things our parents had annoyed us about for the first 18. This, I believe, is the sole reason that the average life expectancy during this time was only 32.

Arranged marriages – now whose idea was that? Not that arranged marriages are such a bad idea. With 50% of marriages ending in divorce, could our parents choose any more poorly than we choose for ourselves?

“Stop!” you say, “Don’t arranged marriages take away the unalienable right that we all have called Free Choice?

Yes, we have the right to choose. We have the right to fall in love and marry that person we fall in love with. We have a right to choose someone who all our friends hate, our parents hate, and who, if we weren’t completely morons, we would have noticed that we hate as well.

Later in history with the rise of specialization, the arranged marriage was replaced by the “Yenta.” (The town Matchmaker.) After all, if your parents couldn’t pick the perfect mate for you, surely the woman in town who knew everyone could find that special someone. This system worked well for hundreds of years until the town Yenta’s began to realize the financial benefits of repeat business, so they started hooking people up who would ultimately hate each other, creating the concept of divorce and ensuring and constant flow of new business for the Yenta.

The industrial age brought a variety of modern techniques for picking the perfect mate. These included the Singles’s Bar, The Dating Service, Online Dating and finally, “Speed Dating.”

Speed Dating is based on the concept that in an 8-minute conversation you can accurately predict that this is the person you may or may not want to spend the rest of your life with. This may work – I do not know. But I do believe that it will exasperate another problem. Does it seem fair that a girl meets you at 8-minute dating and then expects more than 4-minute sex?

Fast forward to Year 2124. A computer has now been devised which will find you the perfect mate. All you have to do is answer a few simple questions, provide a urine sample, give a pint of blood and spend 7 days in a brain scanning machine so the computer will understand every one of your most intimate desires and dreams. Then, instantly, the computer will give you give you the name of your soul mate. And of course, it will most likely be the name of your ex-wife.

I have female friends that are moral, decent people. They believe in long-term relationships. They don’t sleep around. They don’t do one-night stands. They want to love a man before making love to him. These are strong women who adhere to these beliefs . . . until they cross a state-line.

Then they have “Vacation Sex.”

What is it about going on vacation that makes good girls go bad. Woman who barely kiss on the first date are suddenly making out on the dance floor with a Brazilian guy named Ricardo. And the next morning, when they sneak away from Ricardo’s room, the fact that Ricardo is really named John and actually lives in New Jersey doesn’t bother them a bit. Continue reading →